AT THE WORST

ISRAEL ZANGWILL

"And Man is left alone with Man." "Tis well! The shapes that in the dusky background fell From Man's bright soul are laid by morning's spell.

Why stay the Present 'gainst the Past to poise? Man grown to Manhood spurns his childish toys And wakes to grander fears and hopes and joys.

If aught is lost that we should long to keep,
'Tis Manhood's part to work and not to weep.
Old age comes on and everlasting sleep.

We are whatever we have been before;
We have whatever gold was in the ore;
God lives as much as in the days of yore.

In fires of human work and love and song,
In wells of human tears that pitying throng,
In thunder-clouds of human wrath at wrong.

The burning bush doth not the more consume, New branches shoot where old ones no more illume, Eternal splendor flames upon the gloom.

Though Hell and Heaven were a dream forgot,
And unregarded sacrifice our lot,

We serve God better, deeming He is not.

Perchance, O ye that toil on, though forlorn
By your souls' travail, your own noble scorn,
The very God you crave is being born.

Nor yet hath Man of faith and courage failed,
Albeit dazzled for a space and paled

By glimpse of Truth-God's awful face unveiled.

No change need be in all that we hold dear Love, Virtue, Knowledge, Beauty-all are here, One Hope is gone-but in its train one Fear.

The sea wind blows as fresh; the ocean heaves As blue and buoyant: Nature nowhere grieves; As bright a green is on the forest leaves.

Larks sing and roses still are odorous,
Art, Poetry and Music are still for us,
And Woman just as fair and marvellous.

And if the earth with endless fray is rife,
Acknowledge in the universal strife,
The zest of this, the seed of higher, life.

Evil is here. That's work for us to do.
The Old is dying. Let's beget the New.
And Death awaits us now. Rest is but our due.

IV. FAITH

a. THE OLD FAITH b. MODERN FAITH

C. NEW VOICES

Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take,
The clouds ye so much dread
Are big with mercy and shall break
In blessings on your head.

Judge not the Lord by feeble sense,
But trust him for his grace,
Behind a frowning providence
He hides a smiling face.

His purposes will ripen fast,
Unfolding every hour;

The bud may have a bitter taste

But sweet will be the flower.